by Julie Kenner
Chapter
12
“G oddamn son of a bitch!” Some sort of garden-scented toxic shit caught Stryker right in the face, and he howled, eyes burning and tears streaming down his cheeks. Whatever the stuff was, it hurt like a motherfucker.
“Jesus Christ, Melanie, what the fuck did you zap me with?”
Not that she was answering. She was already halfway down the hall. Fucking hell. He’d probably scared the girl to death.
He was out the door in two strides, but she’d already reached the end of the hall. She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes as wide as those of a deer about to get plugged and just as sad.
“Goddamn it, Melanie, stop,” he called, his voice not nearly as calm as he’d have liked because of the shit she’d sprayed in his face. He cringed against the pain, trying to rein in his own frustration, and forced himself to keep his voice low and reassuring. “It’s okay. For God’s sake, I’m here to help you. Would you please stop?”
She didn’t. Just the opposite, and somehow in speeding up she managed to snag her foot on the decrepit hallway runner. The kid was barefoot, for Christ’s sake, and as she let out a pitiful little yelp, his gut twisted. He’d come here to help, and instead he was making matters worse. But he couldn’t let her go back down those stairs. He needed her inside her apartment behind locked doors. Soon—very soon—someone was going to try to kill this woman, and he intended to make sure that didn’t happen. If he had to drag her by the hair to get her inside, that’s what he’d do.
He’d rather see her scared to death than actually dead. He’d already seen one woman dead because he’d been too much of an asshole to protect her. Stryker wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.
As he stumbled toward her, squinting, she struggled to get up, then collapsed with a piercing cry of pain as she took her weight on both feet. She fell again, rolling onto her back and scooting crablike away from him.
“For God’s sake,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help you.”
Her expression didn’t change. No trust. Just cold, hard fear.
He tried again. “I’m not a burglar, I’m not a thief, I’m not a rapist. Trust me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Fuck you,” she hissed, and although he was frustrated as hell that she didn’t believe him, he couldn’t help but admire her spunk. More than anything else, that kind of spirit would help keep her alive.
“Look, I know you’re scared. You came home, I was in your apartment, what else would you think? But I thought they’d already got you. I broke in because I thought you were dead.”
“What?” Confusion played across her face. “You broke in because—what?”
“I thought you were hurt. I’m here to help you. I just want—”
“No.” She jerked away, scrambling backwards, then rolling over and trying to climb to her feet despite her bad ankle. The woman had gumption, that was for sure, but Stryker was in no mood. He lunged, and with no effort at all managed to snag the hem of her sweats, sending her crashing to the floor once again.
“Melanie, calm down. I’m here to—”
“Help! Somebody help me!”
“For God’s sake, woman, be quiet.” He lunged at her and clamped a hand over her mouth, undoubtedly terrifying her even more, but what the hell choice did he have? Any minute now the neighbors were going to show up, and what would he say then?
He studied her, searching her face for some clue as to how to make her understand he was one of the good guys. Her blue eyes were wide. Wide and terrified. And he saw something else, too. Resignation? He’d seen that look before in the eyes of men facing certain death. He’d never wanted to see it again, and he certainly didn’t want to see it on a woman.
And that’s when Stryker realized. Something more than finding a stranger in her apartment had scared her. While he’d been waiting for her to get home, she’d been somewhere in Manhattan fighting the bastard who wanted her dead.
“Something happened,” he said. “Something scared you to death, and it wasn’t just me.”
She remained perfectly still, her eyes full of terror. His muscles strained with unreleased tension. He couldn’t abide anyone terrorizing a woman, and now he’d done it himself. He’d come to protect her, but they’d gotten off to a bad start, and now those ocean blue pools were full of fear instead of hope.
He kept his hand over her mouth, and she breathed through her nose, her fast, shallow breaths tickling his palm. Her eyes never left his, and he focused on her, trying to judge the depths of the strength that had gotten her away from harm and back to her apartment. “I’m going to take my hand away, okay? Promise me you won’t scream.”
She just stared at him, her eyes widening ever so slightly.
“Nod your head, Melanie.”
She nodded, and he gently pulled his hand away, cringing as he anticipated her screams. But she obeyed him, staying silent, cowering into herself even as he held her in his arms.
“We’re going to stand up and go back inside our apartment so we can talk.”
“No,” A hoarse whisper. She struggled backwards, and Stryker knew he’d never get her in that apartment, not without a fight.
He drew in a long breath. He couldn’t blame the girl, but damn, this was frustrating. He’d done the bodyguard gig at least a dozen times, always where there’d been a legitimate threat against the subject’s life. Stryker had dealt with terror, with ego, and with outright stupidity, but never once had a subject flat-out ignored his instructions, much less cower in fear of him.
Goddamn it all. He needed her to work with him, not against him.
“Okay, Melanie, here’s the situation. I’m not out to hurt you. In fact, I’ve been assigned to help you. But you don’t believe me, do you?”
Her teeth grazed her lower lip, and she shook her head just once, a tiny movement, but one that confirmed his question.
“In that case, I don’t think I’ve got any other choice,” he said. He was still crouched beside her, and now he reached into his shoulder holster to pull out his gun. She drew in a strangled breath, and he clamped his hand over her mouth again before she could release it as a scream. He withdrew the gun, checked the safety, and put it in her lap. “Here,” he said, then backed away. He was playing a dangerous game and he knew it, but he didn’t see any other way. He needed her to trust him, and he needed it fast. And he was banking on the belief that Melanie Prescott wouldn’t kill a man. Hurt him, maybe, but not kill him.
“I’m unarmed.” He met her wide, confused eyes. “So what are we going to do now, Melanie? Now that you’re the one holding the gun?”
Chapter
13
A damn good question.
I don’t like guns, but I’m not an idiot. I hefted this one with both hands and aimed it at him, thinking vaguely that this man was either brave or stupid. The way my hands were shaking, he could have ended up with a hole in his face whether I’d meant to fire or not.
“Talk,” I said.
His gaze darted toward the door. “Maybe we ought to do this inside.”
“Do I look stupid?” I asked. “Now talk. And if I don’t like what you say, I’m calling the cops.” I sounded tough, but I was scared to death. I thought about calling the cops right then, but I ruled that option out almost immediately. He’d handed me a very slim advantage here, but the truth was, he didn’t look stupid either, and I was betting that he had another gun tucked away somewhere, but perfectly accessible should I do something rash.
“Do you play any Internet games?”
The question was so unexpected that for a moment I could only stare at him. Then I frowned and half shrugged. “Sure. Some.” The truth was, I played around a lot on the Net. Spend as much time as I do at the computer, and cyber-surfing becomes the procrastination method of choice.
“Multiplayer games? Like PSW?”
I kept the gun trained on him, but I was becoming more curious than scared. “Yeah,”
I said, still wary as I remembered the article in that morning’s Post. Weird that this game I hadn’t thought of in years suddenly seemed to be everywhere. “I don’t play PSW, but I have in the past.”
“So you remember how it works.”
“Pretty much.”
“How?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
“Humor me,” he said.
“Players log on all over the world and are assigned to a role—a target, an assassin and a protector. They all race around a cyber version of Manhattan doing their thing and following the clues.” Actually, it was more complicated than that. That was the allure of PSW. The game was both incredibly complicated and beautiful in its simplicity, but I wasn’t inclined to discuss the ins and outs with this man.
“So you have a profile in the system?”
Handguns are small but heavy, and I was getting tired of twenty questions. “What’s this all about?”
“Melanie—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, what’s this about?” He started to open his mouth, but I waved the gun, and he shut up. Oh, the power. “I’ve played a zillion of these kinds of games. Did I submit a profile? Sure. Do I remember the details? No. But I haven’t logged on to PSW in years. Sorry if I’m a little fuzzy.”
“That long?”
For some reason, that really seemed to bother him. “Yeah. Why is that bad?”
“I just assumed you were a regular player.”
By now, confusion had totally surpassed fear, but I kept the gun aimed at him for appearances’ sake. “I don’t know you from Adam,” I said. “Why on earth would you assume that?”
“Because you’re a target, just like in the game,” he said, the force of his words almost knocking me over. “And I’ve been assigned to protect you.”
Chapter
14
>http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<<
PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN
WELCOME TO REPORTING CENTER
PLAYER REPORT:
REPORT NO. A-0001
Filed By: Lynx
Subject: Game commenced.
Report:
Target approached and package delivered. Tailed target to non-residence location >>>database entry noted<<<
Utilized eavesdropping equipment.
Target announced refusal to participate in game.
Persuasive tactics applied.
>End Report<<<
Send Report to Opponent?>Yes<< >>No<<
His target was on the run.
Lynx reached across the table for his pack of Djarum cigarettes, his eyes still fixed on the glowing screen. He tapped out a smoke, then slid it between his lips, lighting it with one quick flick of the silver-plated lighter his grandfather had surrendered to him so many years ago.
His first prize.
He could remember the move so clearly. He’d sacrificed his rook and his queen in homage to the strategy played so brilliantly by Adolph Anderssen in 1853. Checkmate. He’d been thirteen, and that had been the first time he’d beaten the old man. He’d known he would, too. For two weeks, he’d studied and played. He’d practiced opening with the Evans Gambit and had tried out the Alekhine Defense. In the end, he’d beaten every fucking little dweeb in the Delaney High School chess club, then he’d rubbed their noses in the fact that a lousy freshman had whooped their sorry asses.
Fuckers. They hadn’t taken him seriously, but he’d known. He’d always known. He was destined to be a winner.
He’d wagered his signed Willie Mays starting lineup card against his grandfather’s lighter, and he hadn’t sweated it for a minute. He’d never give up Willie. But that just hadn’t been a risk. Lynx had known even then that he’d come into his own. He was special. He’d been ready.
More than that, he’d been right. A handful of moves, and it had all been over.
And as Lynx had closed his fingers around the cool, polished silver, he’d known that he was the best. He always would be.
And he’d always win.
He’d been winning now for twelve years. Not roulette or slots or those other baby games of chance. Real games. Where skill mattered.
He’d spent his school years dividing his time between the chess club and football, not giving a damn if his pumped-up but brain-dead teammates thought he was a pussy. He’d had things on his mind past high school. He hadn’t given a rat’s ass about the sport—any other game would have done just as well. He’d been in training, then. Training his mind and his body. Making sure he was ready. For what, he hadn’t known. Not exactly. But there was something out there. Some prize that was his.
Even then, he could feel it.
Even then, he could taste it. The sweet nectar of success.
He’d spent long weekends in the summer with his grandfather, his rifle at the ready, waiting for just the right moment, just the right shot. Hunting had been a game, too. Hunter and quarry. And he’d always won.
His grandfather’s cronies used to smack him on the back after they’d returned to the lodge with their kill. They’d pound him between the shoulder blades and tell him what a fine job he’d done. Later, when he’d taken his seat at the fire with Chess Traps, Pitfalls and Swindles open on his lap, they’d looked curiously, but they’d never snickered. He’d proven himself already. He wasn’t a sissy-boy.
Not fun, though, playing against dumb animals. They didn’t know about the game, after all. And so he’d found a new thrill. In no time at all, he’d aced every single-player game that Sierra, Broderbund and all the other developers had had to offer. That had gotten old soon enough, and by his sophomore year of college, he’d graduated to multiplayer Internet gaming. Going through all the levels of Anarchy Online, EVE, Doom and dozens of others. RPGs, MMORPGs. The works. He’d done them all and started surfing again, looking for some new challenge and turning up empty. Not a damn thing out there. At least, nothing worthy of his skill. Nothing worthy of his time.
Hell, nothing worthy of him.
And then he’d found it. Play. Survive. Win. He’d played for over two years, relishing the challenge, thriving on the adrenaline rush of chasing or being chased.
Even that, though, had eventually gotten dull.
And then the new version had shown up in his in-box, and the anonymous package containing the message and the syringe had arrived soon after….
New rules. New challenges. And a thrill like nothing he’d ever experienced before.
Suddenly the playing field was all of Manhattan, and his tools were real weapons, not merely a computerized image. As in the online version, his role in the game wouldn’t start until the target successfully interpreted the qualifying clue. But once she did, then the game wouldn’t be over until he killed her. Or until she finally located and nailed the final clue, which would send the signal to stop.
He wasn’t worried that would happen, though. If the clues were as far-reaching and complex as those in the online game, the target would have to be constantly on her toes to successfully interpret them. That meant he had the advantage: He didn’t have to decipher codes, he simply had to hunt.
He had another advantage, too. He never lost. Ever. And he wasn’t about to start now.
Yes, he couldn’t wait for the chase to begin.
He hoped Melanie Prescott would play. He thought she probably would. Once she realized what was at stake, she’d play like her life depended on it.
And why not? Her life did depend on it. And the clock was ticking….
Chapter
15
I still held the gun, but we’d moved into my apartment, the open door a concession to my continued (though lessened) fear of this man. I was sitting beside him on the sleeper sofa as he manipulated Jennifer’s laptop. Mine was in the shop getting a variety of upgrades, and I didn’t figure she’d mind.
I was sitting at an angle, facing him, and while he concentrated on the computer, I concentrated on him. I still wasn’t prepared to totally trust him, but I had to admit he had a trustworthy face. A fi
rm chin and a strong jawline shaded by the faint stubble of a beard. He looked to be in his thirties, rugged and sexy in a Russell Crowe kind of way. I guessed that the color in his skin had come from working outdoors, and that the muscles that strained against the short sleeves of his burgundy T-shirt weren’t the result of working out with a personal trainer. This was a man who wouldn’t blink at the idea of getting his hands dirty.
The hands in question looked rough, calloused even. But his fingernails were clean, and for some absurd reason, that put me at ease.
The uninvited thought alarmed me, and I tightened my grip on the gun. Mystery Man had been good-looking, too, I reminded myself. And he’d tried to kill me.
“You okay?” He turned his head to look at me, and I nodded, focusing on his gray eyes. Unlike the cruel eyes of the delivery man, this man’s eyes reflected warmth and concern, with a hardness I found reassuring instead of scary. I relaxed, but only a tiny bit.
“Just get on with it,” I said.
He looked like he might say something, but then he decided against it. The PSW website was up on the screen, and I watched as he entered his password, then pulled up a saved message. “SemperFi?” I asked, reading over his shoulder.
“My login. I used to be a Marine.”
“Mmm.” That didn’t surprise me at all.
“Just read.” He turned the computer so the screen faced me. I leaned closer and skimmed the info. When I finished, I realized I was a little sick to my stomach.
“Twenty grand?”
“I got it, all right,” he said. He opened his wallet and flashed some bills. “Showed up in my checking account this morning. I went straight to the bank and withdrew a chunk. I’ll take the rest when the hold lifts. I figure we’ll need the cash.”
“But how? Who sent the money?”
He shook his head. “Honestly? I don’t have a clue. Online it shows up as a wire transfer. My guess is that whoever’s pulling our strings hacked in and transferred the money from somewhere.”
